


destined to be forgotten

by bothromeoandjuliet



Category: Archie Comics, Archie Comics & Related Fandoms, Katy Keene (TV), Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: A Little Fall of Rain, Angst, F/M, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Mostly Canon Compliant, No Happy Ending Fest, So don't worry, pretentiousness abounds, really this is just 4 months + worth me being super angsty and avoiding my other WIPS, slight barchie, which I will get back to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:07:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25867156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bothromeoandjuliet/pseuds/bothromeoandjuliet
Summary: There are plenty of broken things in Riverdale - broken families, broken trust, broken hearts - but in the middle stands the two most broken things of all, Veronica Lodge and Forsythe 'Jughead' Jones.(Jughead and Veronica learn about the Barchie kiss - this is the aftermath)
Relationships: Jughead Jones/Veronica Lodge
Comments: 25
Kudos: 128





	destined to be forgotten

She watches carefully as a droplet of moisture runs down the side of the milkshake glass; shining in the sunlight, dropping against the table with an unheard splat—another droplet taking it’s place.

“We didn’t mean for it to happen,” Archie says from beside her, his voice pleading in Veronica’s ears “one thing just led to another and—“

“It didn’t mean anything.” Betty interrupts, her voice colder then the pile of fries that are laying on Veronica’s plate, uneaten and depressed looking.

There’s a silence, heavy in the air, and then Jughead asks what Veronica’s been wondering from the word go.

“Why are you telling us this now—why not right away?”

“Because, it was just a kiss, and we both agreed to not say anything—but then Cheryl had to come along and throw her weight around, saying that if we didn’t tell you guys she would.” Betty’s voice again, and Veronica allows her eyes to travel up, up, up to meet her face.

The blonde isn’t looking at her though, she’s looking towards Jughead, a semi-bland expression on her face.

“We should have told you guys before, but we didn’t know how to.” Archie adds.

His arm brushes against her’s, and Veronica forces herself to look over at him. He’s biting his lip nervously, and keeping his puppy dog eyes directly on her—rubbing his undoubtably sweaty palms against the fading denim of his jeans.

“Please forgive us.” he whispers desperately, swiveling his gaze back and forth between Veronica and Jughead, eyes widening. “Please—we’ll do anything!”

She wonders whether Betty is nodding her head along with Archie’s words, but Veronica can’t seem to turn her head to confirm it. She’s too busy trying to quell the sickening twist in her stomach—too busy trying to ignore the images that keep popping up of the two of them together in Archie’s bedroom, and she isn’t doing it very well.

“Please, ‘Ronnie. I’m so sorry.”

Veronica reviews her options as he’s speaking. She could scream and cry or she could get up and walk away—only neither of those options are very appealing. Not when these are her only friends, not when graduation was a week ago and this is the last summer she’s spending in Riverdale. So instead of saying anything Veronica just nods—watching as Archie’s eyes fill with relief filled tears.

“I love you ‘Ronnie, so much—I’m so sorry.” he murmurs, tentatively wrapping his hand around her’s, then looking over at Jughead.

“I’ll do anything, man, just please—“

“Yeah, Arch. I get it. Don’t beat yourself up about it, we’re fine.” Jughead interrupts.

Veronica jerks her stare over to Betty, who should—Veronica thinks—be offering her own apologies now. But Betty doesn’t do any such thing. Instead, she steps out of the booth with a nod, and a curt, “Well, there we are then.” avoiding Veronica’s gaze completely.

She steps away, blonde ponytail waving bravely in the air. Veronica watches it as it bounces—bites her lip harder and harder with each spring. Archie’s arm is wrapping around her shoulders and Betty has almost reached the door and the late spring air is clogged with the thunderstorm that has been forecast since that morning and—

And then Jughead catches her eye as he’s exiting the booth and before she realizes what’s happening he smiles at her. It’s small and it’s fast but he does do it.

 _“Screw him.”_ Veronica thinks, tearing her stare away, tasting fresh blood on her tongue.

Archie presses a kiss against her forehead and Veronica pulls her shake closer; let’s the chocolate roll over her taste buds—covering the taste of metal that keeps pouring from her lip—and the moisture drips down her fingers.

_“Screw him.”_

* * *

She starts taking more shifts at Pops, and for the first time, it’s not just to get away from her parents. No, this time Veronica’s honestly just there for the money—even though she’s got scholarships for Yale up to her eyeballs and her parents would be perfectly willing to foot the bill for any extra expenses. Veronica wants her own cash, cash that she earned with hard work and sweat and tears and yes okay, maybe she was trying to avoid Archie but what did that matter?

Veronica knows that it’s not healthy for her and Archie to continue dating—or whatever this pseudo relationship has turned into. Their conversations are few and far between, and their dates are even fewer and further. She knows—hopes—that Archie has noticed the coldness; wishes that he would just make the first move and end it already. But Archie is persistent, or maybe stubborn is a better way to describe it. Veronica connects it to Fred in the back of her mind—that final string connecting the Archie of now to the Archie of then—she pities him for it, only to hate that she pities him.

The brass bell above the old wooden door rings; loud and clear in the empty diner. She shifts her feet uneasily at the sound of it, lets her stare flicker from the opening door to the counter she’s leaning on and back again—always back again—and Jughead walks; nay, struts in, all uneasy self assurance and supple leather jacket. His stare moves slowly, taking in the empty booths and half-dimmed lights and Veronica glares pointedly at a chip in the linoleum of the counter where adhesive is shining through.

He doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t have to. Veronica knows his eyes are drifting over her without him having to say so; she can feel it, can feel him traveling along her skin, calculating the empty space she takes up—so she pushes up off the counter roughly; levels Jughead with a look that promises something; but what Veronica’s not sure.

“Don’t you have somewhere better to be, Jones?” she asks, and he laughs—flicking his tongue along the front of his teeth before slouching over to his usual booth.

His body slides into it easily, one arm flung over the back of the seat and his legs outstretched—heels to the floor and toes towards the bottom of the table. He doesn’t have his laptop with him she notes; and she silently wonders what it is he’s doing here alone on a Thursday night.

“You gonna’ take my order, Lodge—or do I have to come behind the counter myself?”

His tone is frivolously light, and Veronica rolls her eyes as she goes to him—notepad and pen laying forgotten and un-needed on the counter. She knows his order by heart; has known it for weeks now—and both she and Jughead are aware of that.

Standing over him, Veronica lets her gaze hover around the collar of his flannel; drinking in the sight of the base of his neck; the top of his spine—a bit of him that is usually hidden away from her. The skin stretched over it is pale and thin; Veronica can see the bones shifting underneath it as he turns to look up at her.

“Coffee, black—no sugar.” he says, answering her unasked question.

She gives him a jerk of the head and walks back to the counter—leans over it to reach for the coffee pot and scuffed up ceramic mugs that are kept just out of view. The skirt of her faded yellow uniform lifts slightly—she can feel it scrapping against the tops of her thighs—and she knows that his eyes are still on her; just like she knows that he won’t drop his stare beneath the bow in her apron strings.

Because Jughead Jones might be filthy, but he isn’t lewd—in fact, Veronica would almost call him prudish. Especially lately, especially with Betty—particularly when the girl-next-door was doing her absolute best to act seductive.

 _“A one man sex strike.”_ Veronica thinks to herself, and she almost laughs aloud at the thought.

The white mug bangs against the table louder then Veronica had intended it to when she places it in front of him. Jughead’s eyebrows arch slightly at the noise, and Veronica smirks down at him—it’s a nasty smirk; she knows it is—all false bravado; selfish desperation.

“What are you doing here, Jones.”

He lifts the coffee to his lips—dark liquid swirling—and takes a sip. She watches his mouth as he does it, watches his over-bitten lips separate; watches his tongue dart out to catch a drop of coffee that hangs perilously from the corner of his mouth. Then he puts the mug down, and the dull thud of objects connecting echos through the silent space.

“Ask me again when you give me my refill.”

Veronica swallows hard at the teasing tone in his voice, then lifts her shoulders in a careless shrug.

“Maybe I won’t care by then, you ever think about that?”

“Well maybe you won’t.” Jughead concedes, inclining his head towards her but keeping his eyes on the white ceramic “But I’m willing to bet that you will.”

“I won’t.” she snarls, because this is where it always ends with them—with angry words and hurt feelings—Veronica would’ve thought that shared trauma might have changed that.

Exactly fifteen minutes later—because that’s how long it takes Jughead to finish a cup of coffee when he’s not writing—she goes back over to his table, coffee pot in hand. Veronica keeps her mouth tightly shut; watches the dark liquid rise, and he watches her.

“Just sit down, Lodge.” after the mug is full and she’s back to the counter “Come be broken with me.”

She’s silent as she complies—silent because this isn’t them, this isn’t what they do. They nit-pick and fight and send burning, heated glances each other’s way; but they don’t have heart to hearts. Those conversations are reserved for other people—people who either won’t or can’t see all the way down to Jughead and Veronica’s souls.

“Why are you here?” she asks again, resisting the urge to straighten her collar, or tighten her ponytail, or do anything that will serve as a distraction from the way that his sea-foam colored eyes are watching her.

“You know why I’m here, Lodge.”

“No, I don’t.” she shoots back, too quickly and with too much vehemence—because Veronica doesn’t know; not at all.

He bites down on his lip and she resists the urge to copy the movement, lacing her fingers together under the table and gripping tight to the facade of normalcy she’s curated over these past few weeks.

Sighing at her; he reaches up to rub his face and shakes his head—his dark curls swaying slightly from the movement.

“Why are you here, Jones.”

“Why are you still with Archie?”

It’s an unexpected question, and Veronica can feel wrinkles forming in her forehead as she shoots back,

“Why are you still with Betty?”

His laughter grates against her ears—his finger dragging along the rim of his mug as he answers.

“I should have thought that that was patently obvious—to you.”

“Well it isn’t, so spill.”

“No, I want you to guess.”

“Does everything have to be some sort of a game, or a puzzle with you?” she exclaims, already frustrated; with this conversation, with how he keeps looking at her without looking at her.

Jughead glances up from his still moving finger, his expression erring on the bitter side of playful.

“I wouldn’t ask you a question I didn’t think you could answer, Veronica. If you would just think about it you’d know without me having to tell you.”

Veronica stares back at him—hard, unflinching—and scoffs, sliding out of the booth, the skin on her thighs sticking slightly to the tacky vinyl.

“I’m not interested, Jones. You and I don’t play these sorts of games, especially not with one another. So go ahead and order something if you want to; but that’s all you’re getting from me tonight.”

She can hear him leaving the booth behind her, can feel the thudding of his heavy docs’ running through the floor—over her toes, up her calves—but she keeps her back to him; a fact that she’s unreasonably proud of. Jughead’s steps echo softer as he moves away to the door, and the brass bell rings as he opens it.

“This isn’t a game, Veronica, you know it isn’t.”

She whirls on her heel at that, but it too late—Jughead’s already out the door and out of sight—leaving Veronica by herself; alone and suddenly rather fearful in the middle of Pops’.

* * *

She unravels the knot Jughead presented her with about a week later. Not that she had been thinking about it of course—that would be pathetic—it just sort of happens.

Archie had asked her to see a movie with him at the Bijou, and Veronica had agreed, not because she’s actually looking forward to spending time with him, but because she’d been planning on seeing the movie anyway and they might as well see it together.

The movie however, a romantic drama set in the 30s, doesn’t quite live up to expectations, leaving Veronica’s mind free to wander to other things—namely the question that Jughead had left unanswered; leaving it to fester like an open wound in the middle of Pops’. So staring sightlessly at the screen she worries away at it—actually yelping aloud once she’s figured it out.

“Veronica, what is it?” Archie whispers at her after everyone around them has stopped staring.

But instead of answering him she just shakes her head and hushes him—pretending that she’s fine; because lying to him has become so easy lately and she just can’t help herself.

Or maybe it’s more correct to say won’t. Honestly Veronica isn’t certain of herself anymore.

Not wanting to give Jughead the satisfaction of admitting to curiosity, Veronica doesn’t reach out to him over the ensuing days—instead waiting for a meeting to occur naturally—but the second she hears the bell ring over Pops’ door and the sound of his step against the linoleum floor she pounces on him; heart thudding, eyes blazing.

“It won’t work you know.”

Too honest—or maybe too smug—to pretend like he doesn’t know what she’s talking about, Jughead just smirks at her, gesturing to the stool next to him. She hadn’t given him the time to make it to his customary booth after all.

“You’re an prick,” Veronica continues, taking the stool nonetheless, “and a cad. And worst of all you’re a damn coward for doing this instead of just breaking things off with her.”

Her, of course, being Betty—the one who’d started it all, who deserves what Jughead is doing; every bit of it—but Veronica can’t seem to admit that.

He watches her, his eyes amused, but the fine line of his jaw sitting tight—just under the skin. Veronica sees it flex as she stops for breath, but Jughead doesn’t seem inclined to halt her speech.

“If you were that angry you should have just said it was over and walked away—you said that this wasn’t a game!”

"It’s not!” he interrupts, his voice suddenly angry and sharp.

“It’s not a game Veronica; I was being honest when I told you that and I know that you know it. It’s deadly serious, and it’s the only way I can see of making her pay for what she and Archie did to me—to us!” he amends, perhaps having seen the unspoken exclamation on Veronica’s face.

All is silent for a moment—even Pop Tate isn’t making a noise from the kitchen—and Veronica’s voice sounds oddly thin in the air.

“It’s an awfully cold form of revenge, Jones.”

“Well maybe it’s the only way I know. Did you ever think of that?”

Leather slides—rather jerkily—across the countertop, and his dark curls flutter in the air as he lowers his head to lean against it. A softer person would reach out to him; lay their hand on the curve of his shoulder in silent support.

Veronica doesn’t.

“Aren’t you angry, Lodge?” he asks, the words muffled and distant “Don’t you want to make them hurt?”

“Of course I’m angry, Jones, don’t be an idiot. I just…”

Jughead’s turns his head to look up at her, and all of a sudden the words seem to be sticking in her throat.

“I just don’t see the point in you staying with Betty—even though the sight of her makes you miserable—just so you can stop her from going after someone else. She going to anyway, one day; with or without having broken up with you first.”

“I’m miserable anyway; so I might as well make sure that she’s miserable too.”

The explanation isn’t enough for her—in fact it seems to be an awfully drawn out form of revenge for Jughead to take—but they’re only eighteen, and it will do.

It has to.

Her nails flash under the overhead lights—all curved and chip free. They’re too dark for the life she’s tried to build herself, too dark and too big city. Dark colors—dark people—don’t belong in Riverdale; and Veronica can’t help but think that the town had used Archie and Betty’s betrayal to remind them of that.

She can feel his eyes on her again. His eyes, and the heartbreak hiding behind them. He shifts again. Veronica bites down on her lip.

“What’s so funny, Lodge.”

“Nothing just…When exactly did you and I become an ‘us’?”

A finger—his right index—slides into her field of vision; and settles across the back of her hand. He’s barely touching her, but Veronica can feel the slight, grazing friction of skin against skin—like his finger is being welded to the back of her hand—becoming a part of it.

There’s a heat between them, burning her. Veronica’s instinct is to pull away; flee from the sensation.

That’s what she should do, but her hand doesn’t even flinch.

It just lays there. Burning.

* * *

The pain of Jughead’s heart is easier to see in the ensuing weeks. His half-hearted avoidance of Betty’s touch becomes full-blown wincing, and the sarcastic quips at Archie’s intelligence transform into wounded snarls under the light of Veronica’s gaze.

It hurts her to see it—reawakens the pain and anger she thought she’d left buried—and it makes her want to lash out; for both him and herself.

“Are you aware what time it is right now, Lodge?” comes his voice; sleepy and irritable over the phone’s speakers.

Veronica spares a glance for the alarm clock on her bedside table and grits her teeth. Calling Jughead had been a purely instinctual thing—she certainly hadn’t been laying awake at three a.m on a Friday night because she was thinking about him. That would be—

“Veronica!”

The frustrated way he says her name brings Veronica back to herself, and she adjusts her grip on the phone in her hand.

“Sorry, were you sleeping?”

The heavy pause after her words tell her the truth before Jughead does, but she appreciates his honesty when he says,

“Not really, no. I was trying to but—well you know.”

“There’s a Hitchcock marathon on channel six.”

“…Did you seriously just call me to ask if I wanted to watch a movie with you at three o’clock in the morning?”

“You love Hitchcock!” she exclaims, only to be cut off by a snort from his end of the line.

“Yes, but I also sleep, and rest, and not looking bleary eyed crow tomorrow morning!” he counters.

Veronica can’t hold back the giggle that erupts at that; the image of Jughead in the morning, all unkempt hair and too soft graphic t-shirt—with a throw-blanket wrapped around him and a frown that wouldn’t leave his face till his third or forth cup of coffee.

“Come on, Jughead! Try living in the moment for once.”

“Fine—one condition though.”

“And what would that be?”

“Tell me why you really called me.”

Commercials flash on the tv’s screen and Veronica shivers; pulling her blanket a bit tighter around her. The material rubs against her shoulders; cold in the places her body hasn’t warmed it yet—and it makes the sound of his breath echo too loudly through her phone’s speakers.

“I was just tired of being alone. I needed a friend.”

She can hear shuffling, and the tell-tale noises of a tv being turned on. A countdown starts on the tv.

“We’re not friends, Lodge. But I know what you mean.”

* * *

She finds the lyrics a few days later.

Archie’s going shopping for a birthday present for his mom, and he say’s he wants Veronica to help him make his final decision. It’s a cheap tactic, but Veronica agrees anyway—she loves Mary; or at least likes her enough to know what she would like to have.

Nobody answers her knock, but as she pushes the door open she can hear Archie yelling down to her from the upstairs bathroom,

“I’m just shaving quick ‘Ronnie! Make yourself at home, okay?”

The Andrews house hasn’t changed much since Veronica moved to Riverdale—and she’d willingly bet her last dollar that it had been the same for many years before that. Everything’s clean; dusted but rather nick-nacky for her tastes. There’s traces of a childhood Archie here and there—a kid’s baseball glove in the corner, a Wii console under the couch.

Jughead is present too; in the pictures on the walls, the bowl of candy on the kitchen counter, the sherpa lined jean jacket that’s hanging from a hook in the entry-way—forgotten and never returned for. Even Fred still remains—the whole house seems to be a shrine for him and the honest, simple life he had led.

The thought of Fred sticks in Veronica’s throat, and so, attempting to halt the tears that keep rising, she bends over the coffee table to read through the sheet music covering it.

She doesn’t like what she finds.

Simple melodies most of them—like the girl they’re about—very pure and very, very heartfelt. Veronica would almost call them innocent; if you left out the part that they were written by a guy, (with a girlfriend,) about a girl who had a boyfriend, (who just so happened to be the writer’s best friend.)

Purity. Innocence. First-love. All things that Veronica never had the opportunity to have—or to be.

Shame; with a side of white hot fury buzzes in her ears so loudly that she almost doesn’t hear the sound of Archie’s footsteps on the stairs.

“You ready to go, ‘Ronnie?”

His words reach her before he does, and that fact alone is what gives Veronica enough time to step away from the sickly black and white. Instinct does the rest, and by the time the redhead’s freshly shaved face makes an appearance Veronica is perfectly poised to receive him.

True, her gaze is rather stiffly directed to somewhere over his left shoulder and the knuckles on her right hand are whiter then copy-paper where’s she’s gripping to the back of one of the chairs—but other then that, her performance is one in a million.

They leave the house together; smiling—but the stitches in her steering wheel remain imprinted in Veronica’s palms for the rest of the day.

* * *

The air at the White Whyrm is stagnant in Veronica’s lungs—just like the corner booth she’s sitting in is dusty underneath her fingertips—and the window on the far wall looks like it hasn’t been opened in the past ten years and the truth of the matter is that it probably hasn’t—that’s what makes it perfect.

A Serpent she doesn’t know is standing behind the bar; ostensibly washing glasses, but his eyes are on her more often then not. Veronica knows she must be a strange sight, in her designer skirt and top with matching heels—tossing back round after round of vodka sours. He’d nearly refused her service when she’d first come in, but the sight of the inside of her wallet had been enough to silence his objections. Money was money, after all, no matter who was spending it.

The image of a smiling Archie flashes through her mind, and Veronica swallows down the expletive that follows it by finishing her drink. A wave of the hand and another starts being made—her toes are cramping inside their expensive prisons.

“Of all the gin joints in all the world—“

“I walked into yours.” she finishes for him; offering a cheek-splitting grin in response to the grim expression he gives her.

She had heard his step as soon as he’d entered the bar, but the fact that he hadn’t immediately approached her didn’t bother her. He’d come, after all, and that was a hell of a lot more then anyone else in her life had been doing lately.

The clink of glass against wood, and Veronica’s fresh drink appears before her. Jughead gets one too—although Veronica can tell just by looking at it that it’s far less numbing to the senses then her own. Soda probably; meaning that he hadn’t come to drown sorrows. Why had he come then?

“Buckwile called to tell me you were here.” he says in response to her silence; as if he too needs an excuse to be there—an explanation.

“Buckwile? Good grief, don’t any southside mothers love their children?”

Veronica spits out the words, lifting her eyes a second later in mute apology—she didn’t mean it, not really—but no response is given to her appeal. The cold eyes are scanning her; or what can be seen of her over the table. She shivers at the unreadable expression in them—it makes her feel like she isn’t wearing enough clothes.

“Why are you here?”

“I wanted to get blitzed.”

Honest, decisive words, scraping at her throat as she says them. Jughead shifts uneasily on his chair; clearly not impressed with her stubbornness. It doesn’t bother her to see the movement—if he wants to hear the real truth he can bloody well ask for it openly.

And, damn him, Veronica wants him to ask.

“Why are you here, Veronica.”

His voice, sharper this time, cuts through the fog of her thoughts; but Veronica just smiles at the sound of it. Should she be afraid? Very probably, if she were anyone else, but since she’s not, she isn’t. Jughead wouldn’t hurt her—not really—and even if he felt inclined to try he wouldn’t be able to. Veronica was fairly certain it couldn’t be done anymore. Still…

“I found something.” she hears herself saying, and then, “You aren’t going to like it.”

He tenses at that, but doesn’t say anything, just nods at her to keep going. The nod settles somewhere deep inside her; in the pit of her stomach maybe, or the very center of her soul.

 _‘But that doesn’t matter at the moment.’_ Veronica reminds herself.

The words come easily—more easily then they should—sliding through her teeth and over her lips; cold wet words, like snails. She remembers reading a story about that once—a little girl getting cursed to create frogs with every word she spoke, and the thought makes her shudder within herself.

“Did you know?” she asks him once she’s finished; the intonation making her words less a question then a statement.

Jughead shrugs, shoulders shifting, up and down, beneath the black leather of his jacket. He’s dressed in his Southside uniform—jacket, big black boots, rings on his fingers, and no beanie in sight—but even armor can’t protect him from this.

“I guessed, back when—but that doesn’t matter now.” interrupting his train of thought quickly, looking up from the table-top—looking her full in the face, “Did you?”

Veronica tilts her head at the question; considering—biding her time till the ice she’s chewing on has melted over her tongue—then shakes her head.

“No. I did with Betty, of course—everyone did—but with Archie…”

Another glass thuds down on the table but it’s not her’s this time. He gives the look she shoots him a tired smirk and pulls the alcohol closer to his chest; tells her to continue.

“I thought that it—that the kiss—wasn’t really a sign of anything, other then lust. And I could handle that, you know? I could just see it as this unquenchable, physical _thing_ , that they hadn’t been able to stop. But seeing Archie’s songs and realizing that, to him at least, it had been more a—more a connecting of souls then a connecting of bodies; well I couldn’t stand it, and I can’t stand it now.”

Her vision blurs—it might be tears, but it might also be the affects of the alcohol; heaven knows it’s been affecting everything else. Veronica can almost feel it in her bloodstream; clouding her judgement, lowering her inhibitions; but it’s not numbing the pain and anger fast enough.

“Don’t let your snot get all drippy.” he warns, grabbing a napkin from the dispenser and holding it across the table to her.

 _‘It must be tears after all then.’_ Veronica thinks to herself, rubbing at her nose, and then, looking up into Jughead’s face to thank him, _‘Man, those are pretty eyes.’_

“Thank you—but I can’t take any credit for that; you’ll have to thank my grandpa for those.” he answers, laughing.

It’s a gentle laugh—rather carefree and flattered—but Veronica doesn’t like it any better for that. The rational part of her brain tries to tell her that he’s amused at her words; not her, but the other part wants to wipe the smile off his face and rub it into ground. Besides—she hasn’t eaten much today and her stomach keeps fluttering whenever he speaks, or moves, or breaths, or—

“Kiss me.”

If her life was a comedy sketch there would be a record scratch after Veronica’s words, but it isn’t, so all that happens is that Jughead’s laugh gets cut short in his throat—sticking there and choking him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, don’t go all patronizing and pretend you didn’t hear me.”

“I’m not.” a pause, either for deliberation or theatrical effect,

“I was just trying to give you a way to back out of it.”

“I don’t want a way out of it. I want you to kiss me—to show them how it feels for a change! I…I—Darn it, Jones! You were the one who asked me if I wanted to make them hurt, and now that I’ve found the way to do that—“

“This isn’t about me trying to stop you from giving Archie and Betty a taste of their own medicine, Veronica,” he interjects, “this is about me trying to stop _you_ from doing something that you would never forgive yourself for! You would never do that to Archie—heck, to either of them!”

“You don’t know that; you didn’t know me when I was in New York—“

“I don’t need to know you in New York to know that this isn’t you!”

The words explode from his lips—the shrapnel of them flying into Veronica’s face; clinging to her skin—and the impact of them seems to take the wind out of Jughead as well.

The booth seats are wooden—not quite as easy to slide down as vinyl—but he still manages it; sliding down, and further down, till his eye-line is about level with Veronica’s chin. Shaking hands mirror one another; eyes tear away, searching for something, anything to force their attention on.

It doesn’t work.

Their eyes meet, with his face flushing red at the edges and Veronica’s heart’s pounding so loudly she can almost hear the thump, thump, thump of it in her ears. The table isn’t wide—it wouldn’t take much maneuvering on either Jughead’s part or hers for them to come together in the middle—lock into one another.

Skin against skin, soul against soul. Teeth biting and hands groping; the taste of him inside her mouth.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.”

* * *

He drives her home to the Pembrooke in Sweetpea’s truck, with the windows down and the radio off. They don’t speak once.

* * *

Veronica thinks that the color of embarrassment must be yellow—yellow like the headlights of Sweetpea’s truck, bouncing off the grass on the side of the road; or the color of her Pops’ uniform. Veronica never wore yellow in New York—black had been her color, rich and deep and completely, self-consciously, pretentious.

There’s much more yellow in her life now.

“The thing about Wes Anderson’s films is that they are too self-aware for their own good.”

He’s dripping pretension; sucking down his after dinner shake—giving his unnecessary thoughts on an article he’d read sometime between dropping Veronica off at home early that morning and coming into Pops late tonight. She knows he’s mostly grandstanding—The Royal Tenenbaums is one of the few movies he actually owns a physical copy of—but she can’t help but appreciate Jughead’s studious avoidance of the night before.

“But that’s the genius of it; they’re self aware and therefore any authenticity that becomes evident while watching them is truly honest. It’s not just pretentiousness for pretentiousness sake!”

They’re sitting together in Jughead’s normal booth—a pile of fried foods sitting in-between them. No customers fill the other seats, even Pop Tate has gone home. It was closing time a half-hour ago.

Tilting his head to the side, Jughead snags a few fries from the pile, considering. A few grains of salt linger where the ends of his lips meet; rubbing against his chapped lips with each word that agitates them. Veronica knows all it would only take a small swipe of her thumb to remove them, but she keeps her hands tightly laced to one-another; planted on the table in plain sight. They ache to move though, not that Veronica will tell Jughead that.

“Isn’t any artist who considers their art form to be truly ‘self-aware’ pretentious?”

A laugh escapes her at that, and he answers it with a smile.

“What, what is it?”

“I was just thinking that the stance you’re taking was a bit hypocritical. Aren’t you writing a book about your life and the people around you?”

“You would bring that up.” wrinkling up his forehead and looking down his nose at her.

“Well, isn’t it?”

“If you choose to believe that I was my own main character—which I _wasn’t_ —or that I was writing it for my own amusement; then yes, I suppose I’m being a bit of a hypocrite.”

“Who _was_ your main character then? Betty? Jason?”

A fly buzzes in one of the windows; disturbing the peacefulness of the scene. Jughead’s disturbingly direct stare is fixed to the lip of his glass, and Veronica takes the opportunity to loosen her fingers from one another—takes a bone-rattlingly deep breath.

“I’d meant for it to be Jason—at first.” slow words—heavy; clogging up the air they’re both trying to breath.

“I’d started writing before he disappeared—which is privileged information by the way, so if you blab I’ll know—and I’d meant for the book to be more about the…the duality of Riverdale; of small towns in general, you know?”

Veronica nods at this; duality is something she’s had more experience with then Jughead could even imagine, but he doesn’t acknowledge the eager movement.

“Then Jason went missing, and I thought that I’d been handed a goldmine of inspiration! And it worked, for a while—everyone’s secrets started popping up like daisies, and Betty and I started dating and—well, you were there. You know how it was.”

She can hear a hitch thicken his throat at the end of that statement—leaving his voice curiously husky and hesitant even after he attempts to swallow it down with his shake.

“So Jason was your main character?”

“The drug-runner from the richest family in town? You’d think he would be, wouldn’t you? I thought he was, I—I honestly wanted him to be; desperately—but he wasn’t.”

 _‘Who then?’_ is the question Veronica barely manages to bite back; but Jughead’s eyes shoot up to her face all the same—pinning her in place; halting the breath in her lungs.

“I would think the ‘who,’ would be obvious.”

The words are hardly more then a murmur—hardly more then the slightest of movements of his pale lips—but they fill the air like church bells; clanging against Veronica’s unaccustomed senses with a intensity she’s never experienced before. They settle around her neck; choking her, and the heat of a blush rushes along her face like fire.

His eyes are on her—tracing her hard edges and softening them like she’s just a paragraph he can’t bring himself to erase—and all of a sudden its all too much; the grease coated air, the almost brushing of his foot against her’s. She thinks she might start to combust.

If the table wasn’t bolted down to the floor, Veronica’s certain that it would shift when she stands—pushing blindly at anything she touches. The door is only a few feet away, and she thinks—hopes, prays, begs—that she can make it that far.

“Veronica—“

Her name catches her only moments before he does—and she almost gasps at the feeling of Jughead’s hand on her forearm.

His skin doesn’t feel like the skin of anyone else who’s touched her. Chuck, she remembers, had been slick and sweaty from the summer heat; and Archie was always calloused from one thing or another. Brick and mortar, guitar strings, hell, even life has stiffened him. Reggie had been always been clammy when he touched her, like a little boy on his first date; and Nick—now there was a throwback—he’d hovered over Veronica’s skin like silk, not touching her as much as containing her.

Jughead doesn’t remind her of any of those things.

“I never thought that you saw me—that way.” she confesses, refusing to turn and look up into his face, yet knowing that he’s staring down at her all the same.

“I knew—know—“ she corrects hastily, because the fact that she’s lost Archie’s love is _not_ going to diminish her self worth, she refuses to let it do that, “that people see me as a potential…something. I guess I always thought that you were immune to that part of me.”

Veronica can feel him shift closer at that; and the hand on her arm readjusts—sending fresh sparks through her. Fingerprints burning themselves into her arm, like he’s marking her—taking her for his own.

“Might’ve been better for me if I was insensible.”

Jughead laughs as he speaks, but the laugh is hesitant, vulnerable. The ground beneath them and their pseudo-friendship is churning under their feet and they can both feel it.

“Does Betty—“

“No.”

There’s a darkness in his voice, and the edge of it gives her the courage to look up into his face when she asks,

“If you’re being honest about all this…” the eyes spark with something at that, and the hold on her arm tightens ever so slightly.

“Why didn’t you kiss me last night?”

“You were drunk.” comes the answer—said far too quickly and with far too much vehemence.

“That wouldn’t have stopped some people.” she counters, thinking back to all the times it hadn’t.

Jughead narrows his eyes at her, the small muscle under his left eye twitching in that way Veronica has always secretly found endearing, and his pupils grow larger.

“And you don’t think it would stop me?”

The insulted pride is clear in his words. Veronica shakes her head at them—shakes the confusion of his touch away.

“That’s not what I meant, it’s just…You and I are perfectly well aware that I knew and meant everything I said last night—and it’s not like I was the only one who’d been drinking; you had too by that point—so why didn’t you do it?”

“I was a lot soberer then you.”

The repeated excuse drips desperation, but Veronica ignores that; pushes against the barrier he’s put up against her.

“So you’re telling me that that’s all it was—that if I asked you to kiss me, right here, right now, you would do it.”

Jughead’s lips part, but before he has the chance to speak Veronica lifts the arm he’s not holding—drapes it over his shoulder; lets the tips of her fingers dance up his neck—over the fine scroll work of his ear—and brings the other arm closer to her torso; dragging his knuckles across the stiff cotton of her uniform, letting the fibers snag against the roughness of his fingers.

Jughead’s adams-apple bobs nervously, but he doesn’t pull back—and when he speaks Veronica can hear the note of warning in his voice.

“…Veronica…”

Lifting her eyebrow at him, she halts the stroking movement of her fingers; although her fingertips still ghost just above his skin.

“Do you have something you want to say to me, _Forsythe_?”

The sound of his given name shoots through him like lightening. Veronica can see it fly through him—his muscles tensing up as the syllables pass her lips—and the hand that isn’t on her arm slides easily around her waist; jerking her forward, closer to him.

“Veronica…” Jughead’s head dips down—panting breath washing over her face.

“Yes?”

“I’m not Archie.”

“And I’m not Betty.” she counters—his arm tightens at the admission, and Veronica swears that she can feel the edges of his belt digging into her hipbone.

“No, you’re not Betty. That’s why I won’t do this.”

“Feeling remorseful?”

“Not even slightly.” he admits, “But that’s not why.”

“Why then?”

“Because Betty has proven that she doesn’t care—but you would; all your bravado not withstanding. You would kiss me and feel disgusted with yourself, and I’m selfish enough that I wouldn’t want you to be disgusted. And then you would feel guilty and go to Archie and apologize and—“

“I think I get the picture.” she snaps, letting her hand fall from his ear to the much safer position of his jean clad shoulder before asking,

“And you wouldn’t feel disgusted?”

He releases her arm at that—lets his now free hand float up and over her—digging his fingers into the hair at the nape of her neck. Veronica stiffens to keep from shivering as Jughead’s lips hover nearer to her own; brushing against her when he turns at the last second to avoid kissing her—instead letting himself dance across her skin; the heat of his lips against her jaw bone, the tip of her nose, underneath her left eye.

“I’m Southside trash, Lodge.” he whispers, fingers twisting through the inky blackness of Veronica’s hair.

“So?”

“So, my dad was a drunk, who’s dad was an even meaner one; and my mom left me to rot before I’d hit the double digits. I’ve been disgusted with myself longer then I can remember, and for the most part everyone else has been disgusted by me too. I’m a liar, and a cheat, and I’ve seriously considered stealing you away from Archie for weeks now.”

Forehead presses to forehead, and as she sweeps her eyelashes downwards Veronica thinks she can feel him shudder.

“You can’t steal me from Archie—you can’t steal something that doesn’t belong to anyone.”

“Can’t I?” chuckling, holding her tighter “Who did you call when you needed a friend, Lodge?”

“You.”

“And who will you be thinking about tonight after I walk you home and you’re about to pass out under your silk sheets? Will it be Archie and his boy-next-door smile, or will it be me—standing here—holding myself back from you.”

She can’t answer that—won’t let him have the satisfaction—but Veronica knows he knows anyway. A moment passes with them both standing perfectly still—frozen together in this moment that shouldn’t exist—and then Jughead loosens his hold on her; stepping a little away.

“Don’t worry, Lodge—I won’t bring it up again. But if you break up with Archie…well…”

The sentence trails away incomplete but it doesn’t matter. They both know what he means without him having to say it.

“Are you sure that we’re not friends, Jones?”

“Absolutely positive.” comes his answer, and Veronica throws her head to the ceiling and laughs at the certainty of it.

* * *

“Did I just wake up it an episode of the Twilight Zone?”

Both of her parents look up from their separate occupations at her words and smile, gesturing for her to take one of the unoccupied stools that sit across from them under the lip of the kitchen counter.

“Morning, mija!” her father greets, while her mother resumes whisking her bowl of eggs.

“You look well rested.”

That’s a bold faced lie—Veronica knows it is; she’d seen herself in the mirror while she brushed her teeth—but she just hums noncommittally and sits down, her eyes watching a pad of butter melt against the hot metal of the griddle.

“So…what exactly is going on? Not that I’m against the occasion sugar binge, but it’s barely seven thirty.”

The pair across from her exchange a glance, and Veronica’s stomach tightens. She hates when they look at each other like that—like they know something she doesn’t and don’t know how to spring it on her.

“We thought we’d have an extravagant breakfast for a change—it’s so rare for the three of us to all be home at once—“ her father starts, only to be cut off by his wife,

“Yes, and we have a surprise for you.”

“And what sort of surprise would that be?”

“We’re taking a trip back to the city!”

Her mother’s exclamation is filled with excitement, but there’s a hint of desperation in it that Veronica can’t ignore, so she keeps her expression as neutral as she can while her mother continues.

“We haven’t spent much time together as a family this summer—and we want to get some one-on-one time with you before you leave us this fall.”

“But we haven’t gone on a work-free, family vacation since I was twelve. Besides, why NYC? It’s not like dad isn’t there for work at least once a week.”

Another awkward glance, and Veronica digs her nails into the flesh of her thigh.

“Something else is going one here, isn’t there? And you two are lying to me about whatever it is to get me to go!”

Her voice rises by the last few words, and her father holds out his hand to reassure her.

“Mija—you’re correct; all right? We do have an alterer motive for trying to get you to come with us, but it isn’t anything nefarious.”

He sounds sincere enough, so she gives him a hesitant nod, and they resume their breakfast making.

“The real reason that we—that I—wanted to have us all go together as a family is that—For the past few months I’ve been…I’ve been going to see a _therapist_ in the city.”

“A therapist.” Veronica echoes weakly, but her father doesn’t seem to hear her.

“Things have been going very well for a while now, and Dr. Crawford suggested a few months ago that you and your mother should be brought in for a few sessions. Your mother came with me a few weeks ago, and it was very productive, but he would like to have all of us together if that’s possible."

 _Therapist._ The word echoes inside Veronica’s brain; taunting her. She wasn’t against therapists in the grand scheme of things—but considering the fact that the last time she had seen one she’d been told that she held some sick, twisted fetish for her father’s power inside her bones—Veronica was less then eager to return to one.

‘ _Then_ _again_ ,’ glancing up to meet her father’s worried eyes; watching her mother’s fingers squeeze hard against a dish-towel…

“All right, let’s do it.”

* * *

Archie stops by the Pembrooke to say goodbye the morning she leaves. He brings her cookies for the three of them to share on the drive down; a fact that Veronica would enjoy more if she didn’t recognize the tupperware they’re stored in—if she didn’t remember making the exact same cookies almost a year ago in Alice Cooper’s kitchen.

She gives him a stiff smile and doesn’t let him kiss her anywhere but her cheek.

When they cross over the town-line Veronica spots Cheryl, Toni, and Kevin hanging out by the ‘Welcome to Riverdale’ sign. They wave when they see her—hooting and waving tacky, bright streamers—and she waves back.

A half hour later she pulls her phone from her purse—screen glowing brightly against Jughead’s name—and her fingernails tap too loudly against the glass.

 **Veronica** : _Pop forgot to order the waffle fries you wanted._

She waits for a few minutes for a response—tossing the phone in her bag when she grows impatient—and she doesn’t hear the familiar buzz for about ten minutes after that.

 **Forsythe** **III** : _You owe me a burger._

Veronica wants to laugh, but the sound feels too thick and too much like a sob for her to do so. She’s anger soaked that he didn’t acknowledge her absence— and his sardonic voice twists through her.

“ _We’re not friends, Lodge_.”

‘ _Screw him_ ,’ she thinks, unconsciously echoing the thoughts of her previous self, _‘Screw caring, and screw him and his stupid, self-centered, self-serving ego!’_

* * *

“He’s an ass, but he’s a smart one.”

Her words bounce off the cold metal of her phone—rattle around inside it’s speakers; and his laugh coils inside Veronica’s ear.

“Praise from the lips of Aphrodite.”

“He actually reminds me a little of you.” Veronica continues before snapping, “And don’t call me Aphrodite.”

“What,” he teases “you prefer the Roman versions? Venus, rising from her pearl colored waves—fitting, don’t you think?"

It’s a tangent, but Veronica’s glad for it. She hadn’t meant to tell Jughead about the comparison she’s been drawing over the last few days. It makes it sound like she misses him.

“Venus is slightly more acceptable, but it’s still a no.”

“Who then?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“What, you want me to guess?”

His voice is incredulous, and Veronica laughs at the sound of it—throwing back her head and stretching her legs out against the cement steps she’s sitting on. The Met had closed a few hours ago, but Veronica doesn’t care. The steps remind her of steamy summer days spent with Nick and Katy and anyone else who’d wanted to be there—sharing stolen cigarettes and drinking overpriced iced drinks.

Childhood freedom—back when heartbreak and pain and betrayal had been a distant improbability.

“I told them about Archie and Betty.” Veronica admits, shocking herself with the confession.

That was another thing she hadn’t meant to tell him.

‘ _Damn_.’

Jughead’s breath hitches through the phone, but when he speaks his voice is light—unconcerned even.

“Oh yeah? And how’d that go?”

“Okay, I think. I mean, they’re not thrilled, obviously, but I think they took it in stride.”

“What, no mob hit? Pity, I would’ve liked to see that—a non-lethal one of course.”

“Oh, of course.” she mocks.

A couple and their two small kids pass before her on the sidewalk, laughing and smiling—practically bursting through their skin with happiness.

“What are you doing right now, Jones?”

He’s silent for a moment, then chuckles—low and dark—setting goosebumps off across the expanse of Veronica’s skin.

“You don’t want to know what I’m doing, Veronica."

“Don’t I?” she challenges, lifting an eyebrow at him; even though he’s not there to see it.

“I’m at Pops—in the back room.”

Another small pause, and then he’s hurrying on—pushing his words through his teeth.

“You left your backup uniform here. It smells like you—it’s comforting.”

Air brushes Veronica’s hair back from her face—she could almost imagine that it’s his hand, there in spirit; reaching out to touch her all the way from Riverdale. White teeth dig into the flesh of her bottom lip; lipstick flacking onto her tongue.

“What do I smell like?”

“Cinnamon,” Jughead answers promptly, “and dried out roses. And if you’ve been with Archie you smell a little like his cologne—heavy, but not man-ish.”

The phone buzzes against her cheek—probably Veronica’s father, calling her home—but she ignores it.

“You’re pine trees,” she breathes; shoulders hunched—closing in on herself, “and motorcycle exhaust. You smell like coffee if you’ve been writing, and on the mornings after you’ve spent the night with the Serpents you smell like campfire smoke—like it’s a part of you. It’s nice.”

‘ _Wrong, wrong, wrong_!’ her mind warns her, and she knows it’s right. It’s absolutely wrong—wrong and dirty—sinful thoughts blossoming in Veronica’s lungs.

“I haven’t been to a campfire in a long time, Veronica.”

The words halt as he says them; questioning and curious—and she wonders if he feels as conflicted as she does.

“I know.” she answers, and hangs up.

* * *

Veronica loves New York in the summer. Summer, when all the upper-crust citizens are away on vacation; leaving the city and it’s haunts to their lower-class neighbors.

She collects a new wardrobe under Katy’s watchful and talented eye—filled with vintage inspired items and large price tags. Katy deems it perfectly collage appropriate, tells Veronica that she’s going to be the envy of the entire freshman year while she twirls in a Audrey Hepburn trench-coat they’d discovered a few days before.

Veronica smiles at her; does her best to say nothing but pleasant things.

That night, after Katy returns to her brand new apartment—with the brand new friends she says that Veronica absolutely _has_ to meet because Katy knows she would just _love_ them—Veronica goes back to one of the vintage stores they had visited; buys a deep black leather jacket she’d seen earlier, but hadn’t had a good enough excuse to try on.

It might not be Katy Keene approved—in fact Veronica’s certain that it wouldn’t be—but she puts it on anyway; slides it over her skin—over the thin silk of her night-slip—and curls up inside it when she goes to sleep that night.

She tries not to think about why.

Archie doesn’t call very often, and even when he does it’s all stilted sentences—too long pauses. More often then not he stumbles over the syllables of Betty’s name, trying and failing to morph it into someone else’s.

Veronica leaks tears when he does that; palms pressed against the thudding of her temples. Silent tears—careful to not smudge her mascara—and when Archie finally hangs up she calls his best friend; swallows down the taste of sharp-edged revenge with her sobs.

There’s never very much news from Riverdale, but what there is Jughead shares with her. Most of it’s fairly dull, but it doesn’t matter. That’s not why she calls him.

Honestly she doesn’t know why she does what she does anymore, but she can see her parentsexchanging worried glances—over the dinner table, in the back of the limo; whenever and where-ever they see through a crack in her facade.

She doesn’t try to explain it to them—it would be too much; too personal. They might think that they’re able to handle anything, but Veronica knows better—knows that they couldn’t handle this. Fragile minds, thinking they know her so well. Veronica knows they don’t—they aren’t strong enough to.

Sometimes—in the dark of her room wrapped in the cold leather of her jacket, after having to talk to her parents for longer then she thinks she can bear—she calls him. Veronica knows she’s going to have to stop doing that at some point—it’s starting to look dangerously like a habit.

Yes, Veronica loves New York in the summer.

* * *

She calls Archie an hour after she drives back into town; asks him to meet her in General Pickens Park.

He agrees, and together they sit on a sun-bleached bench; eyes on separate eyesores.

“How was your trip?”

“Arch…” she sighs—burning at the desperate question, and he holds up a trembling hand to stop her.

“I know, ‘Ronnie, I…I know.”

Her remonstrance dies on her tongue, and together they sit inside the silence—restlessness and peace sitting side by side.

“When did you stop loving me?” he asks softly, pulling Veronica’s stare over to him.

“When did you start noticing?”

Archie winces at that, but he deserves worse and they both know it. He shrinks into himself all the same; Veronica lays a hand over his knotted ones.

“When did you realize you were in love with her?” she asks, unable to force her mouth into the shape of Betty’s name.

“I don’t remember,” he murmurs, stare pinned on their hands. “I think…I might have always been. But I tried not to, ‘Ronnie, I really did!”

“I know you did. But that doesn’t make what you did okay. You ‘trying’ to stop yourself from loving her doesn’t make it hurt any less.”

Archie, to his credit, doesn’t object to that; just unlocks his hands—holds onto her as tightly as he can.

“I loved you, Archie, and I thought that at the end of the day we friends at least—“

“We are friends, ‘Ronnie!”

“Friends are honest with each-other, Archie! Friends trust each-other—if you had come to me and told me how you were feeling, yes, I would’ve been hurt, but I would have understood!”

Both sets of brown eyes fill with tears, and Veronica gets them each a tissue from her purse.

“I never wanted to hurt you.” he says at last.

Archie’s hands are clammy against hers, and Veronica can taste the saltwater from his tears as she kisses him on the cheek.

“I know you didn’t, Archie. I didn’t mean to hurt you either.”

His strong arms wrap around her shoulders just like they have hundreds of times before, but it’s not the same. His embrace is cold, distant—Veronica knows it’s the embrace of a future stranger.

“I’m sorry ‘Ronnie.”

“Me too.”

* * *

It’s one week to Veronica’s move—one week till Riverdale is just a dot in her rearview mirror. She feels like the knowledge of that; the knowledge that the table she’s currently wiping down is the last one she will ever be paid to wipe; should be making her feel something.

It doesn’t.

Pop Tate’s in the back office, ostensibly busy—but the door is open and Veronica can feel the sad brown eyes watching her. He keeps saying goodbye; he knows better then anyone else in this soul-sucking town that once you escape you don’t come back if you can help it. Except for her parents, but Veronica doesn’t plan on following their footsteps.

And so he says goodbye and Veronica holds onto him tightly—nose pressed into his shoulder—and one by one she whispers farewells to the memories hiding in the corners of the old diner.

There’s the phantoms of Archie and Betty from that first night—dusted pink and youthful—there’s skid marks from Cheryl and the Vixion’s sneakers; from haphazard dancing in the blistering afternoon sun. She hasn’t spoken to any of her former teammates since she got back. She’s going to have to rectify that.

Her broom slides noisily over the floor—there’s nothing there to disturb but she does it anyway. It’s handle is solid inside Veronica’s fists—reminds her this is real—that she’s here, teeth on her lip, lashes tangled. More importantly it keeps her from noticing that _he’s_ not.

‘ _I won’t reach out first, I won’t_.’

The bell above the door starts ringing, and Veronica freezes—body stiff but heart and mind and soul unbearably pliable.

“Last shift?” comes the sarcastic voice from behind her.

She bites down on her lip, then answers him shorty,

“Looks like it.”

Her joints sit tightly against one-another but she resumes her sweeping; eyes on the floor, away from him. Jughead’s still watching her—Veronica can feel his stare sliding over her shifting limbs; her hair swaying across her back.

The bell rings again, and she whirls around, watching his back as it passes through the doorway. His shoulders are slumped—and the plastic handle of the broom clatters loudly when it crashes to the floor.

The mid-August, evening air is cool on Veronica’s skin; flowing up her legs and over her knees when she sits down next to Jughead on the stone steps. He’s still slumped, hair falling down into his eyes. Her hand lifts up of it’s own accord—reaching out to push the black waves away—and he flinches; shying away from her.

“What’s your deal?”

“Nothing.”

Muffled voice, and Veronica frowns; pushing her eyebrows together. Evidently she’s going to have to try a different topic. 

“It’s my last shift tonight.”

“I know.”

It’a a non-committal response, and so, sighing, she tries again.

“You were there the night of my first shift too. You came in and ordered your usual; I remember being so thankful that all you wanted was plain coffee that I treated the four of us to a full dinner on my first pay-check out of sheer gratitude.”

A snort shoots out of him at that, and he straightens—finally turns to face her. The night is dark, but Veronica can make out enough of his face in the pale moonlight to see the swollen eyes; the reddening tip of his nose.

“Jug—“

“Don’t worry about it, Lodge—just some old wounds healing. Betty…Things are over with her—for good.”

“But I thought—“

“I guess I got tired of being a—what was it again? ‘Damn coward?’”

Rolling her eyes, Veronica resists the urge to press the top of his boot with her white loafer and hisses,

“If you interrupt me again I’m going to leave you here to wallow in your self-pity all by your lonesome.”

The grin he gives her is apologetic, and together they stare up into the stars, saying nothing—listening to each-other’s shallow breathes. It doesn’t feel like the silence she’d shared a few days ago with Archie; it’s a companionable silence—born out of mutual understanding, mutual heartbreak.

“I’m just…so tired, Veronica. You think that’ll ever stop?”

She doesn’t answer; can’t seem to find the right words to; just holds out her hand to him—watches as it’s engulfed by his long fingers.

‘ _Artist’s hands,_ ’ she muses, ‘ _they’d probably still look elegant wrapped around someone’s throat_.’

As if answering Veronica’s unspoken thought, Jughead tightens his grip; knuckles protruding underneath his pale skin, and he sighs once more.

“You’re leaving soon, aren’t you?”

“End of the week—I convinced my parents to let me drive alone, so we’ll see if I get murdered at some lonely gas station on the way there. My bet is for not, but hey, at least if my dad turns out to be right you’ll have something new and interesting to add to your book.”

A low hum leaves him—dances through the wind.

“Yale. Ivy League. Prestigious job straight out of collage thanks to your father connections.”

“Jealous, Jones?” she teases.

“Of your future nine to five job; complete with a white picket fence and one-point-five kids? Nah, not me. I’d never be comfortable in a corporate setting—but I’d like something more then this.”

‘This’ of course, not being the two of them, sitting side by side in the moonlight, Veronica knows, but instead the wider sweep of Riverdale in general. Small towns, small minds, small opportunities.

“You have to get out of Riverdale, Jughead.” twisting to look up into his face.

“Can’t. Don’t have anywhere else to go.” he fires back quickly.

He’s digging his thumbnail into a divot in the cement with the hand that’s not holding her’s and something inside Veronica clenches at the despondent expression in his sea-foam eyes.

“All that means is that you can go anywhere.” she argues, “You can’t stay here and expect life to give you anything more then what you already have, and I don’t want you and your beautiful mind to sit and rot here for the next forty years because you were too afraid to take the next step!”

His gaze jerks over to Veronica’s face, all wondering and surprised. The intensity of it embarrasses her, and so, ducking forward; Veronica settles her head against the strong security of his shoulder—lets her curls flatten against his neck. 

“Promise me that you’ll get out, Jughead.”

A brief pause—with Veronica holding her breath in expectation—and then the comforting weight of his lips presses onto the center of her forehead; hovering over her even when he’s pulled away.

“All right, Lodge, I promise. I’ll get out before the snow melts.”

* * *

Dew is sitting like diamonds on the leaves brushing together over her head—on the blades of grass clinging to her shoes—and the air is misty around the heads of her parents. Their matching black wool coats remind Veronica of her grandfather’s funeral; the all encompassing power of death—of endings.

She hugs them tight, nodding at the frantic nothings of advice they keep whispering into her ears, and a sharp edged lump of a sob lodges itself in Veronica’s throat.

“Smithers should arrive a few hours before you—but call us when you get there all the same.” her father says as she pulls back.

Another nod, and Veronica’s mother clings desperately to her arm.

“Do you have everything that you need? Food, drinks—did you charge your phone; do you have your charger?”

“I have everything I could possibly need, Mom, don’t worry. I didn’t make all those checklists for nothing.”

“I know you didn’t I just—“ a sob cuts off her mother’s thought and Veronica pulls her in again, whispers into her hair.

“I know, I know. I love you—both of you.” pulling back—reaching out to take her father’s shaking hand in her steady one.

“We love you too, Mija. Never forget that.”

Things are said after that, but it’s those words of her father’s that echo in Veronica’s mind as she drives away; watches as her parents shrink into non-existence in the rearview mirror.

She knows that in the future there will be plenty of things she’ll have forgotten about this time in her life—that the small get together Archie and Kevin had thrown together the night before will fade into a fuzzy blur of laughs and tears and words not said—that the black as night ink she’d used for the letter she’d slipped through Betty’s letterbox will someday disappear into the depths of a garbage-bag, or into an old cardboard boxes that reads, ‘Painful Memories: Do Not Open.’

Even Riverdale will forget her, in time. Her cheer photos will be removed from the glass display case in the high-school; someone else will take her locker without knowing who’s it was before—hell, even Pops will cease to have a place for her; with it’s costumers ignoring her existence. Well, most of it’s costumers.

The gravel road that leads to Sunnyside doesn’t billow up around her while she drives over it—the slight drizzle see’s to that. Veronica’s knuckles are flexing around the steering wheel—holding tight to it, like it’s the only tether she has left to humanity—and a noisy breath of relief escapes her when she see’s the absence of F.P’s motorcycle.

The door swings open at the first of her cautious knocks, and Jughead’s bloodshot eyes look down at her. He looks like he didn’t sleep the night before—like he’d stayed awake, waiting for her to come to him. She wonders if her eyes tell him that she’d done the same.

“Lodge,” the space between the door and the doorjamb widens, his veined arm gestures inside, “everything all right? You want to come in?”

“I can’t stay—I’m actually on my way out.”

Now it’s her turn to gesture—to the car sitting in the wet; to the boxes visible through back windows. His stare follows the movement; Veronica can see his pulse quicken for a moment in his neck; and he nods.

“You didn’t come to my party.” she continues, well aware of how young and silly she sounds, but she wants him to look at her again—she’d do anything for it.

“I wasn’t exactly invited.”

“You should have come anyway. We could have stood in the corner together—judged everyone for their life choices.”

Matching half chuckles break from each of them—uncomfortable in the cold air. He’s staring at her again, teeth sunk into his lower lip and Veronica wraps her arms tightly around herself—holds back the tears.

“So I guess this is it…the last stop on my farewell tour.”

“Forever?”

“No-one to come back for. My parents are moving back to the city in the spring—and it’s not like I have anyone else here, waiting for me.”

An unclear answer to an unasked question, but Veronica knows Jughead understands what she means. Still, he doesn’t even shift from his spot against the door frame.

She hates that her heart clenches over that.

“Well, now that that’s out of the way…I guess I should go; let you get back to sleep. I just thought I should stop by—say something before I went.”

The awkward tumble of words break off on her tongue, fractured and sharp—caught nervously in the space between them—and Veronica clears her throat.

“I appreciate the thought, Lodge.”

Stare on the rotting wood of his front steps—dark curls falling into his eyes; tangling with his lashes. Her teeth are sharp against her lip; digging into it so deeply that it’s beginning to loose feeling.

“I guess that’s…all I wanted—to say, I mean. See you ‘round, Jones.”

Out from under the lip of his porch roof; into the rain. It dribbles underneath Veronica’s collar; chilling her. Her car, and the future it leads to, are only a few feet away—she knows she should be feeling something different then this dread that’s filling her bones; holding her back, dragging her beneath the ground to die in the dirt.

Her fingers slip over the door handle—keys shake against one-another.

“Veronica!”

Her head jerks up at the sound of Jughead’s cry, watching with dim eyes as he jogs across the grass to her—chest rising and falling frantically underneath his t-shirt; panting breaths flying out into the air despite the short distance he's come.

“Persephone. It’s Persephone.”

“What are you talking about?”

He’s close enough for her to touch now, but Veronica keeps her hands at her sides—held away from him.

“The night you called me; I called you Aphrodite, but you said no—you wanted me to guess. I wasn’t brave enough to—I knew what it would prove, to me, if I did.”

“And what would it have proved?”

Closer now, and his shirt is beginning to cling to him.

“That I was the devil in your story—that I was Hades, tempting you to stay in hell with me.”

His eyes swim in saltwater—it rolls over his cheeks—and Veronica lifts her hands to his face, wiping them away as she chokes out,

“I broke up with Archie.”

“I know you did, Veronica, but I…I couldn’t hold you here.”

She shakes her head at him, pulls his forehead down to meet hers with shaking hands.

“I know you couldn’t—and I’m not.”

Veronica’s eyes are tightly closed—eyelids pinched together—but she can feel him nod; his skin rubbing up and down against her own.

“I know."

Noses brush, then lips, and then he’s holding her—tugging her body to meet his with a ferocity Veronica responds to with equal enthusiasm. Her hands, fingers stiff from the cold, slide through his hair and stay there; but his seem to be everywhere—now at her shoulders, then her cheeks, then undoing the belt and buttons of her coat; sliding over the warm curve of her waist—pressing Veronica closer to him.

It’s far from the ‘perfect’ kiss. It’s damp for one thing, and no rainbow appears when they separate, (not the first time, nor the second,) and Jughead’s dressed in his ratty plaid pajama bottoms that should have been replaced a long time ago, but Veronica knows she’ll remember it all the same. This kiss—unlike the other things—won’t fade from her memories. It might gather dust; might be pushed away into the recesses of her mind; but it will stay—burned into her whenever she thinks about it.

The way Jughead’s holding onto her makes her think he might feel the same.

Gravel slides under her tires, windshield wipers make _tssking_ nosies against the glass. Veronica’s foot presses against the break, and leaning out the window she calls out to him,

“Whenever you get around to finishing that great masterpiece of your’s, send me a copy, alright?”

Jughead is small in the distance, but Veronica thinks she can hear him laugh; thinks she can see him shake his head when he calls back to her.

“I’ll do that—I’ll even dedicate it to you.”

The window rolls back into place, her tires move beneath the car once more, and Riverdale—and Jughead with it—slowly begin to disappear.

* * *

_To my raven haired princess, who showed me the way out._


End file.
